


Drop

by JoAsakura



Category: X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-08
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War 2. The lives of a bomber pilot and a paratrooper collide spectacularly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn, 1943

The first time that Captain Jake Richter almost didn't see the redhead was on a crisp late November morning.

The 330th Bombardment Squadron hadn't left its base at RAF Hardwick in several days, and each of the crews were getting antsy. And making his men check over their B-24 from top to bottom again was a decent way of keeping DaCosta and Collins quiet at least.

As the transport trundled to a stop, though, activity drew to a halt, pilots and crew straining to see who would get off. "Maybe it's Betty Grable, come to lift our spirits, eh, Cappy?" DaCosta elbowed him and Richter rolled his eyes. Behind him Rusty and some of the other crewmen chuckled.

The disappointment as the first man stepped off the plane was almost palpable. A major, he was big as a brick house, old, and with a sour, scarred face. Olive dress uniform with alot of ribbons and a division patch Richter had never seen before. (Airborne. Black shield with yellow crossbones in an X) He scowled. (Who the hell are these guys?) Following him was a skinny blonde Captain with a genial smile, toothpick clamped between his teeth. Then even bigger than the major, a dark-skinned, sharp-faced lieutenant.

"Damn, lookee that. Them guys got themselves a gen-you-wine Red Indian." Rusty said from behind him.

"Don't you got something that needs doing, Sergeant?" Richter turned to him and snapped, Collins scrambling back to the bomber. When he turned back, the three men were almost across the field, and a fourth had exited with them.

Tall, broad, the hair peeking out from his cap red as a sunset and Richter felt his knees go a little soft. He didn't think he'd made a sound until the redhead paused and glanced over his shoulder, sharp blue eye catching Richter's dark ones.

It was only the edge of his face, strong lines and pale skin, and Jake Richter swore he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

That last man turned again and followed his unit into the staff offices without expression and Richter felt the breath he'd been holding leak out. "Damn."

"You really gotta do something about your redhead fetish, Cappy." DaCosta whispered in his ear. "You do realize that was a man, right?"

"Shut up, Bobby." Richter grumbled. "Just.. shut up."


	2. The Lieutenant Juggles

The second time that Jake Richter almost didn't see the redhead was that night.

The Chequered Hog was a pub a few klicks from the airbase, a mix of locals, yanks and RAF flyboys soaked in a boozy haze of flirting, dancing and boasting.

When Richter looked up from his pint of bitter, it was as if the three airborne officers had appeared in the pub out of nowhere. All three looked considerably more relaxed than they had on the landing field earlier that day, probably due to the fact that their iron faced CO was nowhere to be found. As before, the redhead was behind the other two, slipping in the corner or Richter's peripheral vision.

Fresh, handsome faces were a draw for the local ladies, as well, and the english rose that Sgt. Collins had been working up the nerve to approach wandered off in favour of the massive native american lieutenant.

"Goddamn." Rusty muttered into his beer as the conversation in the bar momentarily lulled. "Tonto's here one night, and already he's making friendly with our ladies!" He didn't notice as both DaCosta and Madrox moved away from him, but he did notice the wincing look on his captain's face as he glanced up. "What?"

The hand that came to rest on Rusty's shoulder was nearly as big as his head, and the Radio Operator slowly looked up. "Oh."

"So that's twice now." The huge man rumbled. (Proudstar, J.) Richter noticed. "There something you want to say to my face, little man?"

"Well..it's just.. that is.." Collins stammered, and Richter got to his feet.

"Lieutenant Proudstar, right?" He dug his hands in his pockets, not looking at small, ashy man beside him. "Look. I want to apologise for Sgt. Collins. He's an asshole and an idiot sometimes, but he's a good crewman, and a decent guy for the most part."

"You gonna stand up for him so I can get some of my pride back?" Proudstar folded his arms and Richter swallowed. The other two Airbornes waited behind him, looking bored.

"Sure. He's my man, after all. Just.. if we have to arm wrestle or something, just don't break my arm? I have to be able t'fly."

He didn't expect the big man to burst out laughing. "That's good, man, that's fantastic. Ok, tell you what. By proxy, then. If you're gonna proxy for your boy..." Proudstar reached behind him and caught the redhead in a headlock. "I'm going to request that Lieutenant Russell be mine."

(at least I know his name now?) Richter thought, as the other lieutenant (dwarfed by Proudstar despite his own height) made a small "urk" sound.

"Jim.. oxygen." He muttered, squirming himself free and rubbing his neck.

"Oh, come on. Like that was gonna hurt you, Seven." Proudstar laughed. "So here's the challenge, Captain." He jerked a thumb at Russell. "Pick anything in this bar. Anything at all, and my boy here'll juggle 'em. If he can't, I'll give you five bucks and we won't bother your Sgt. Collins again."

"And if he can?" Richter was only half listening. Pale skin, that sunset hair slightly flopping in his face. A beautiful face, he couldn't deny, except for the brutal remains of a burn etched starlike across the side of his face and over one eye- paler silver than the other blue one. (A star.)

"So, that settled then?" Proudstar asked.

"Huh? Sure, sure." Richter mumbled. "Go on, men. Go find some stuff for this fella to juggle."

Collins scrambled away, eager to get away from Proudstar, and Russell rolled his eyes. "Goddamnit, Jim, not the juggling." He growled. Even his voice was beautiful. This was more than the redhead fetish at work, Richter assured himself.

"Oh, come on, Ben, it'll be fine." the blonde behind them drawled. "Ain't like you can't do that in yer sleep."

"urgh." pale eyes caught Richter's again and something twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You'd probably do best to step back." He said politely.

"Where the hell did you assholes get a machete?" Richter asked then as the items were laid out on the table. "Jesus. Lieutenant Russell, I'm..."

"No, no, it's fine." Russell muttered, running his fingers over the items- beer mugs, pens plates, the anomalous machete, a sad-looking orange. He picked up a plate and motioned for his squadmates to move some tables. "Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice suddenly boomed, and the pub quieted as one. "It is my pleasure this evening to provide for you feats of amazing manual dexterity."

He picked up a plate and spun it on his fingertip. "At the behest of the brave men of the 93rd Bombardment Group, I will be juggling this... peculiar collection of items."

Richter was mildly confused. The serious faced lieutenant had been completely replaced by a showman.

"Captain Guthrie, if you please?" He turned to the skinny blond captain who laughed and chucked a beer mug at him. The pub held it's breath as one as each different item flew through the air to find itself in the pattern that Russell wove in the air with the items. "Behold. No trick of smoke and mirrors, Ladies and Gentlemen, simply the amazing power of human skills!" At last, Guthrie tossed the machete and the crowd gasped, expecting blood and property damage.

Richter took a step forward then caught himself as the huge knife twirled through the air and found it's place amongst the others. Russell walked himself over to the table and then started tossing the items back to his teammate, until he had only the knife and the orange. He let the orange drop to the floor and with a thunk, the machete embedded itself in the centre.

Russell sketched a deep bow, picked up the halved orange and held the machete out to Richter. "I win." He said with a smirk and took a bite of orange as the pubgoers cheered.

Redhead fetish or not. Man or not. Jake Richter had never been more in love in his life.

~~~

After Rusty, as punishment, paid up the five dollars and a belted out a hideous rendition of "Yellow Rose of Texas", Richter finally managed to entice Russell away from his teammates. The lieutenant had immediately gone back to his serious face, but several pints had softened it.

"Really, how did you learn to do that?" Richter asked, leaning boozily over the little table.

Russell rolled his eyes. "You'll laugh."

"No, no. Promise. You've got my word as an officer and mostly a gentleman."

"I grew up with it." Russell said as if that answered everything. Somewhere behind them, they heard both Proudstar and DaCosta's laughter.

"That's it?" Richter sputtered. "Come on, pleaaaase. I have to know. It'll drive me crazy."

Russell snorted. "I grew up in the.." He mumbled something that sounded like "circus."

"The Circus?" Richter grinned. "That's every kid's dream."

"Mister Mojo's Wildways Bigtop Extravaganza." Russell chuckled faintly, staring at Richter over the rim of his mug. "My father was an acrobat,juggler, contortionist, knife thrower, a jack of all trades. My mother..."

"Must've been incredibly beautiful." Richter muttered, feeling his face flush as soon as the words left his mouth. "Sorry."

"No, she was. She'd been a vaudeville singer back in Boston. Left with my father during a show to become a high-wire artist. The dazzling diva of the big top." Something quirked at the edge of his mouth. A sad, brief smile. "All in the past now. How bout you, Captain Richter?"

"Oh, crap. Me. Hell, I'm just the kid of fruit pickers." Richter went to wave off the question when the table rattled from the motion, sending the pints splashing across the Lieutenant. "Ah, goddamn! I'm sorry!"

"No, no. S'okay. Should've gotten out of the way." The lieutenant slurred faintly.

"No, no. Come on, I'm in good with the barmaid. Let's get you cleaned up."


	3. Getting sentimental

[musical accompaniment](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ggm3wB18veA)

"Nice room." Russell said blandly, after taking a moment to fully absorb the impact of the chintz florals everywhere.

"According to Miss Cassidy, the Hog was an inn back a hundred years ago. Before the war, her father bought it with the intention of redoin' it that way." Richter said. "You can see they only got as far as the chintz."

"And you've spent some time up here, I take it?" Russell perched himself awkwardly on the edge of a doily-laden chair before Richter shooed him towards the bath.

"Your jacket- c'mon, before it sets." He said. "And a couple of times. Mainly to beat a tactical retreat from one very lonely lady whose darling husband's off somewhere fighting the war, and once to avoid a certain confrontation with a very pissy RAF pilot who mistakenly thought I'd insulted his mother."

He clicked on the radio, soft, scratchy music filling the room and watched as the lieutenant doffed the olive wool jacket, broad shoulders shifting under the khaki shirt beneath.

"I'm surprised, Captain." Russell said over the muffled saxophone.

"Call me Jake." Richter said, dumping the coat in the small bath's sink. "and by what? My domesticity?" He ran a small bit of water and let the coat soak, stealing a glance at Russell in the mirror. The lieutenant caught the look and padded over to lean in the doorway. "I've got a whole herd of younger siblings. Someone had t'take care of the little bastards."

Russell smiled briefly and they both laughed until Richter held up a sleeve. "I've never seen this division patch before." He said, a little cautiously.

"I can't tell you about it." Russell shook his head, fine sunset hair slipping across his forehead. "You know, the old "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you' routine?" He shrugged.

"I guess you can't tell me why you guys suddenly showed up on base today, either." Richter prodded the wet fabric then gently wrung it.

"If you need to know, your CO'll tell you." Russell said, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ca..Jake."

"Fair enough." They stood awkwardly in the small bathroom.

"So." Simultaneous, like the two embarrassed chuckles that followed. "you have a really nice smile, Lieutenant." Richter finally said. "Must have to beat the ladies off with a stick."

"Ben." Russell said, backing out of the doorway. "And..even if this..." He gestured vaguely towards the scar "Didn't scare them off? I..." Pale eyes fixed on Richter for a moment and he chewed the inside of his cheek. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter. No time for romance, really."

"I think I know how you feel." Richter said quietly, spreading the coat out on the edge of the tub to dry. "But, it's not... scary. Not at all."

~~

At some point in the awkward silence that followed, the song on the radio changed and Richter rose to his feet. "Danced back home t' this." He held out a hand to the man across from him. "Can I have this dance, Lieutenant?"

Russell snorted, amused, something fleeting- a blush- was come and gone before it registered.. "I can't dance, Captain."

"You can juggle machetes, and you can't dance? Bullshit." He grabbed the taller man's hand. "Everyone can dance if they find the right partner."

One red eyebrow quirked. "I'll let you lead then."

"See, nothin' to it." Richter gave a small grin at him as they swayed in the little chintz-covered room. "So, you do this often?"

"Once or twice." Russell said softly, eyes sliding shut as Richter's hand tightened against the small of his back. "You? I'd think you don't have much trouble finding dance partners."

"You'd be surprised." the pilot murmured, letting his hand travel across that broad back.

The first kiss was almost chaste, experimental as nervous lips met as they danced. There was a moment of surprise for them both, an announcer on the radio dimly noticed as the song ended, before Richter threaded one hand through Russell's fine red hair and pulled him in close.

The second kiss and the dancing had been forgotten in favour of an awkward stumble backwards to the little floral-covered bed and a much more dedicated exploration of eachother's mouths. The small part of Richter's brain that wasn't currently being short- circuited by the soft touch of the redhead's lips was feeling smug.

Until his thumb brushed brittle, burnt flesh and Ben Russell winced away from him. Pale eyes refused to meet his own. "Ben?" He asked softly, letting his hand fall back to the safer ground of the side of Russell's neck. "Does it hurt?"

The lieutenant pulled back, just a little. "No. No, it doesn't. I'm just.." A faint, apologetic smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before vanishing.

Richter narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Gimme your tie, lieutenant."

"Excuse me?" Russell blinked, startled by the sudden gearshift.

"I don't have one on now do I?" Richter tugged at his own collar as the perplexed lieutenant handed over his own tie.

"You're not thinking of tying me up, are you? Because I can tell you.." Russell started, his words cut off by Richter's mouth on his again and the stiff twill of the khaki tie sliding across his eyes. "Jake?" He rasped around the kiss.

"There. Now neither one of us can see it, ok?" Richter murmured against his throat, bedsprings creaking as they sank together.


	4. Clarinets and heavy breathing

[musical accompaniment](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2Mf8OAOz5g)

Benny Goodman's clarinet was a soft counterpoint to two sets of ragged breathing. Richter's mouth had wandered away from Russell's to worry at the soft skin of his earlobe before one big hand cupped the back of his skull and dragged him back.

A faint flush had spread across Russell's pale skin, stark against the khaki across his eyes and almost clashing with the warmth of his hair.

"God, you're beautiful." Richter murmured against his lips. "Dios." even softer as he pushed the stiff cotton of Russell's shirt and the undershirt beneath it up to stroke down the broad chest to the lieutenant's narrow waist. "It's almost not fair."

"Your hands..." Russell whispered, catching one of Richter's hands and dragging it back up to his mouth. "They're shaking. You're nervous?" He said softly, pressing a kiss on the palm. "I'm the one blindfolded here."

"you kidding me?" Richter chuckled, nosing Russell's jaw upwards to worry at the long fair throat it exposed. "Nerves of steel, right?"

"Cocky pilots." Russell arched a little as Richter found a particularly sensitive patch. He bit down a small gasp, and plucked irritably at the pilot's shirt. "God, take this off." He growled softly and it sent a little shiver down Richter's spine.

"Yes sir. Right away, sir." He shifted, sitting up to straddle the lieutenant. Russell's thumbs tracing down his hips as he pulled his own shirts off. Dogtags clinked softly as he leaned back over. "This better, Lieutenant, sir?" Richter shivered again, just a little as the callouses on Russell's thumbs scraped against his spine.

"You're so warm." Russell almost purred, fingers moving to trace the outlines of muscle and bone beneath Richter's skin. "even if you smell like aircraft fuel and beer." he added and Richter slid a hand between them, turning the chuckle into another small gasp.

"Smartass." He murmured in the lieutenant's ear, shifting to slide the crisp twill down his hips. "You're lucky you're so cute."

"umph.." Russell arched against him again, his own hands moving blindly to undo Richter's belt. "Why'd'you think they call me Seven?" He growled again, the growl turning to a long sigh as they took eachother in hand; smooth, heated flesh sliding hard against the other.

"Muy afortunado." Richter gasped, burying his face against Russell's hair as they stroked each other, his thumb lightly catching on the slickening head of the lieutenant's shaft. "Bello, bello mi estrellita" he whispered against his cheek.

Russell's free hand tangled tightly in Richter's dark hair, holding his head so Russell could feel his way to the pilot's mouth again, ragged breaths growing sharp and quick. He made small, incoherent noises, near-whimpers, and Richter could feel the tiny muscle twitches of someone desperately trying not to come yet.

"It's ok, it's ok." He rasped. "yo también..." The big hand on his head twitched a moment before the body beneath Richter tightened with a softly keening gasp, sticky warmth flooding his hand. Richter ground himself down against the lieutenant's other hand, now slick and hot and he was amazed he even lasted another few seconds.

The kisses slowed, grew less desperate, after that as they tried to catch their breath. It took a few minutes before Russell let go of his hair to push the blindfold up. "It's been a little while." He murmured, pressing a kiss to Richter's forehead. "God..."

"Same here." Richter rasped, sagging next to him, tugging the tie off the lieutenant. "I'd say let's do it again, but I don't know if I can move."

"Yeah." Russell peered down at him, pale eyes made brighter by the flush. "Was that spanish?"

"Spanish?" Richter buried his face against the lieutenant's chest. "Sorry, yeah. It still slips out sometimes, y'know, when I'm.. excited."

"Still?"

"Fruit pickers, man." Richter gave a rueful little laugh, feeling the steady throb of Russell's pulse. "Came up from Guadalajara when I was little, y'know? I worked real hard to lose the accent."

"I would've never known." The lieutenant nodded, nosing through Richter's hair. "so, what, learned to fly a crop duster?"

"Yeah. You know, I don't even like flying that much." Richter said around a yawn. The barmaid was going to kill him if they didn't clean up their mess.

Russell shifted to look at him better. "Then why..?"

"Because, maybe it's wrong, but man, I love blowing shit up." Richter grinned up at him and was rewarded by the first full-on smile he'd seen from Russell so far.

He figured it was worth it if Miss Cassidy killed him now.


	5. A little slice of hell on earth

The third time that Jake Richter almost didn't see the redhead was because he was deeply involved in a fit of insubordination.

 

In retrospect, he realised he should have taken those brief couple days that happened next for the gift that they were.

From the further tussling in Miss Cassidy's chintz-covered bedroom, Lieutenant Russell's broad white shoulders beneath him as Richter lost himself in the redhead's heat, to the stolen kisses in the storage sheds and half-glances as they passed by eachother in their duties, almost two days passed in haze that had as much to do with Richter's lack of sleep as it did with the activities that had been clandestinely replacing it.

"Cappy.. CAPPY!" Bobby DaCosta's voice shook Richter out of his latest musings and he glanced over to see his co-pilot, and Madrox the Navigator, staring back at him.

"What?"

The other two men looked at each other before approaching their Captain. "Out of nominal deference to your status as our Captain, we've not asked you as to what kind of trouble you and that Airborne got up into after you ditched us at the Chequered Hog." DaCosta said.

"True." Madrox nodded. "But we're seeing signs, Captain."

"Signs." Richter scowled at them both and coughed. "really."

"And we're worried, Cappy." DaCosta said, casting an arm around his friend's shoulders. "This looks like a repeat of that furlough we had in Scotland. Remember, the preacher's red-headed daughter?"

"Yeah, the one with the furry..." Madrox started, grunting as Richter elbowed him in the stomach.

"I remember. And no. This isn't like scotland. This isn't like scotland AT ALL." Richter growled, feeling his face heat up.

"Oh my god. Poppa, do you see that?" Madrox cooed then, batting brown eyes gone dewy.

"Our little boy's grown up and fallen in love, momma." DaCosta fired back, shaking Richter slightly. "I'll have words with him on our way to the briefing. So he knows the birds and the bees."

"I'll have supper waiting, Poppa!" Madrox cooed again before giving them a jaunty salute.

"Wait, briefing, what?" Richter asked as DaCosta led him away.

"Briefing. remember. 0900 hours? which is, oh, in half-an hour?" The co-pilot scowled and poked Richter in the arm. "Jesus, Jake, everything you do is like your flying. Seat of the pants."

"Ah." Richter coughed, glancing around as they walked. "Sorry."

"Jake, look. You're my bestest friend in this whole war." DaCosta leaned on him again. "And it doesn't take a genius to get what's going on. I know how your... tastes go."

"Bobby..."

"No, hear me out." Bobby shook him again, then let go. "I don't care, as long as you get this handsome package home safe from our runs." He gestured to himself. "But, he's not exactly going to be sitting around the motor pool waiting for you to come home, Jake."

"I know. I know. But have you just felt... someone so... right? For you?" Richter flailed.

"Every time I think of the joy I could be bringing to the ladies all across the world." DaCosta answered without a hint of sarcasm.

"Of course. How silly of me." Richter rolled his eyes just as they made their way into the situation room.

~~

 

The briefing went as they usually did, with one exception that grated on Richter's mind as it went on. Unlike the other squadrons, 330th was being sent to a secondary target, a factory complex seemingly out in the middle of nowhere.

Colonel Hodge droned out the details while the stone-faced Airborne Major stood unmoving beside the desk. Richter could feel the presence of Russell and his teammates at the back of the room.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Captain Richter, I need you and Lieutenant DaCosta to stay behind." Hodge said, adjusting his pince-nez glasses as the rest of the group filtered out.

"Colonel, sir?" Richter approached the desk. The Airbornes did so as well.

"You won't be dropping any bombs on this mission." Hodge said, his voice grating the edge of Richter's nerves. "We've got a different payload for you."

"What kind of payload is that, sir?" His stomach did a squirm.

"You'll be flying center of the formation. On target, you'll be dropping Major Summers and his team." Hodge said. The Colonel's voice was as expressionless as his face.

Beside him, Bobby coughed, surprised. Richter flattened his palms on the Colonel's desk, scowling. "I think I might have misheard you sir." He said carefully. "You just said you want me to drop four men into a firestorm."

"You heard correctly, Captain." Hodge said, eyes narrow behind his glasses. "Do you have an issue with that?"

"That's SUICIDE!" The desk rattled violently as Richter pushed off it, Hodge's coffee sloshing about. "Those bombs will turn the target into a little slice of absolute hell on earth, Colonel." he was glaring at the Major as he spoke, the old man's jaw twitching in annoyance. "You must be out of your fucking mind! We drop guys into the middle of that? THEY'LL DIE!"

"CAPTAIN!" Hodge got up, balling his spindly fingers up tightly. "I suggest you take a little walk and compose yourself. Otherwise, I will be more than happy to let Lieutenant DaCosta here take your command."

Richter glared at his co-pilot who shook his head, panicked. He couldn't even bring himself to look at the soldiers behind him as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the situation room, Hodge's murmuring at his back.

The slap of cold air and bright sun did nothing to help as he strode away, fidgeting.

"Captain! CAPTAIN!" Russell's hurried voice behind him, and Richter couldn't bring himself to stop. "GODDAMNIT, JAKE!" He stopped then, found himself caught by Russell's big hands on his arms.

The redhead's eyes were stark and bright and he dragged Richter off to a supply shed with inexorable strength. "Come with me, goddamnit." He growled and for a moment, Richter felt a completely inappropriate twinge in his pants.

"Ben..." He started.

"Shut up. Just.. shut up and listen to me." Russell growled again, shoving them both into the shed. He pushed Richter up against the wall, hands pressing into the metal on either side of the pilot's head. He was breathing hard and in the dim light inside, all Richter could clearly see was the dull glow of his hair.

"This.. this is what we do, Jake." He paused, almost visibly dragging the words out. "You wanna know what the OSS calls X Division? They call us.. They call us 'the freakshow'."

Richter slowly raised his hands, letting them hover in front of Russell's olive jacket before the fell again to his sides. "The freakshow?" He asked, softly.

"Major Summers... he can... move things with his mind. Talk to you in your head." Russell started again. "Jim.. Lieutentant Proudstar.. he's faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful.."

"Than a locomotive." Richter finished. "Like Superman. Like somethin' out of "Wierd Mysteries"." He would've laughed but his eyes had adjusted to the gloom and Russell's face was deadly serious.

"Like something out of a comic book. Hell, Sam can fly and he does something that makes him bulletproof." Russell let his hands drop, leaning over Richter's shoulder to lean his forehead on the wall. The pilot could feel the agitated beat of Russell's pulse against him.

"So. What do you do? I don't think juggling.. or that thing you did with your tongue.. um..." Richter's hands itched with the need to touch him, but he forced them into his pockets.

"I heal." Russell said quietly, and straightened up. "Jake, what was the first thing that popped into your head when you saw this?" He gingerly touched the starlike burn that covered the side of his face.

"That you were real lucky you didn't lose that eye." Richter answered, not looking away.

"I did lose that eye, Jake." Russell broke the gaze, staring down at their shoes. "I lost half my face around this time last year in North Africa."

Richter blinked and Russell continued. "When my face grew back, Major Summers tapped me for the freakshow."

"So. Great. You don't need a bandaid when you cut yourself shaving." Richter tried to sound funny, but his voice broke. "That's not the same as.."

"I do something else, too." Russell sounded defeated, and the broad shoulders slumped in on themselves. "I'm not supposed to talk about this with anyone, Jake. But.." He raked back his bright hair. "I can take noise, right? And push it through metal so things blow up."

"You can blow shit up." Richter lifted an eyebrow.

"If there's enough sound, yeah." Russell turned away from him, stiffening slightly as Richter's hand came to rest on his back. "Sam's job on this mission is to get me down there in one piece so I can take all the noise from the bombing run and use it to blow a vault the Nazis have hidden down there according to intelligence. Apparently there's something really important in there that we have to retrieve."

Richter buried his face against Russell's back, sliding his arms around the taller man. They stood there in silence for a long while. "It's crazy, y'know, to hear that."

"I know." Russell turned in his arms to look down at him.

"Why me? Why my crew?" Richter scowled up at him in the dim light.

"Because I asked Major Summers for you." Russell said then, a little sheepish.

"Do you audition all of your pilots that way?" Richter's hands fell. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"What? No. No." Russell scratched through his hair again, looking back at his feet. "No. But even before.. I don't know. My instincts are usually very good. And I don't want anyone else dropping me in this slice of hell on earth but you, Captain."

"That's not fair, being all earnest like that." Richter sighed, leaning on the Lieutenant again. "Goddamnit. Fine. Fine. I'll drop you and your team in that mess, but you have to promise me something."

"What?" It was Russell's turn to hesitantly bring his arms around Richter, pulling him close again.

"You come and you find me when this is all over. I don't care when. You just come and you find me and you apologise for making me worry like this, you dumbass. Even if I'm dead. Apologise to my grave."

"I promise, Jake." Russell smiled, letting his forehead rest against Richter's.

"And it's Julio, ok? Don't tell nobody that, I hate that name, but, you know, just in case. Everyone just calls me Jake, ok?" Richter grumbled and squeezed his eyes shut, hands tight on the Lieutenant's shoulders. "You promised."

"I never break a promise." Russell said and for the longest time, they stood there, listening to the sounds of each other's breath.

[musical accompaniment](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5Qx4Y_hUuE)


	6. Stormy Weather

The last time that Jake Richter almost didn't see the redhead was because he was half-blinded from a camera-flash.

"Don't look now, Cappy. Locke's got the brownie out again." DaCosta elbowed Richter in the side as the crew suited up.

"Oh, come on, Lieutenant." Locke clutched his camera to him. "If I take the pictures, it means I get to go home earlier." He grinned. "Plus, I think it's good, y'know, I take a picture of all of us before we fly, it's good luck. We keep coming back safe."

"Ok, ok." Richter rolled his eyes. The crew of the "Earthshaker", like any bomber crew, had developed their own preflight rituals and supersitions.

The little tailgunner held his camera like a pet cat and scowled then, past the Captain to the four Airborne soldiers heading towards the plane. "Have to take their pictures, too." He said then. "Just to be safe, y'know?"

The pilot was ready to protest when DaCosta stepped in. "Cappy'd be real happy if you did that, Private."

"Bobby..." Richter hissed as the tailgunner wandered off.

"You'll thank me later." DaCosta grinned.

"I hate you." he muttered back, watching Russell and his teammates. None of them wore parachutes. (I guess they wouldn't need them) Richter thought, feeling an uncomfortable twist in his gut. "Major Summers." He saluted the giant, stone-faced old man who glared down at him for a moment before returning it.

"Captain Richter." He rumbled. It sounded like granite plates rubbing against each other. "We're counting on you."

"We'll get you on target, sir." Richter glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Russell, while simultaneously trying not to.

"You could do better with focus." Summers rumbled at him again. "You're easily distracted." The big Major pushed past him and Richter felt an annoyed tic start in his own jaw.

"Wait wait wait!" Locke's squeaky voice broke through the sounds of the airstrip. "Major! No nono, you can't get on the plane yet! NO!"

"Oh, god." Richter moved to insert himself in between his tail gunner and the Major at the same time Lieutenant Russell did.

"Major." Russell said, letting his shoulder rest against Richter's. "They've got preflight stuff to do." He said quietly. Richter felt his face warm slightly. A tiny glance aside, and he saw the quirk of a smile twitch at the corner of Russell's lips.

"Picture." Locke narrowed his eyes at the much bigger and much higher ranking officer. "Everyone, by the nose."

Summers looked back at Russell, then at Richter. "And you have a disgraceful lack of control over your crew."

"Aw, c'mon, Cable. We don't got no pictures." The skinny blonde captain, Guthrie, clapped the Major on his shoulder. "Ah think it'd be nice."

"Yeah, come on, boss!" Proudstar chimed in and the Major cursed as he let them lead him to the nose.

It took a terrible act of will, but Jake Richter managed to keep his mouth shut.

~~  
Locke scuttled back and forth,cramming the ten-man crew of the "Earthshaker" in front of the leggy redheaded pinup girl on the nose, then cast a critical eye at the four Airborne. "Big guys kneeling on the outside!" He shouted, setting the Brownie up on a homemade tripod. "skinny guy, kneeling in the middle!"

Major Summers gave Richter a death-glare as the tiny Private ordered them around. He flashed the stone-faced Major a smirk and a jaunty salute before someone jostled next to him. He turned quickly to see that DaCosta's usual place at his side had been taken by a vaguely startled looking Lieutenant Russell, the co-pilot giving his captain a thumbs up from behind the Airborne.

Richter ducked his head to hide his smile behind the brim of his cap while the Lieutenant quirked that tiny smile again. "Jake.." He started.

"CONTACT!" Shouted Locke and the flashbulb went off, leaving the still settling men laughing and blinking away the bright dots in their vision.

"Is that the ritual beating of your tailgunner?" Russell asked as Sgt Collins and the other men started chasing the little man around the plane. "Is it always like this?"

"You should see the other seventeen photos of the crew." Richter snorted, walking away from the plane. "The first one was so bad, they threatened to tie him to the landing gear."

"They're a good crew." Russell grinned for a moment as the tailgunner yelped behind them.

"They are. Which is why I want to bring 'em all home safe." Richter sighed, bending down to splay his fingers across the airstrip. "It's funny all the stupid things we do, thinking they'll keep us safe, y'know?" After a moment of deliberation, he picked up a stone, unremarkable in every way and the size of a quail's egg.

"And that?" Russell asked.

"I always bring a little earth from the base with me. Figure this'll want to go home to it's family as much as we do." Still crouching, he gestured to the airfield and the green hills around it. He looked at Russell for a long moment, then picked up another, unremarkable rock. "Connects us."

He pressed the rock into Russell's hand. "Maybe this'll bring you back here, too?"

"I hope so." Russell chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Jake..."

"Don't say it." Richter waved it off. "Just put that in your pocket, ok?"

It was Richter's turn to yelp when the bigger man grabbed him, gentler than he had earlier, and pressed a brief, fierce kiss to the pilot's forehead before letting him go. "Ok."

Cap askew, Richter just shook his head and chased after him.

~~~

Richter could still feel the warmth of that touch on his forehead hours later in the freezing cold, the sound of the wind howling through the open waist gun openings. Rusty's beloved old portable gramophone, most certainly not an army-approved mission item, scratched its way through the limited selection of records they had.

Richter wished he could keep an eye on Russell and the others, but the Airbornes were at the back of the plane, closer to the bomb bay from where they'd be jumping. In the greying dusk, he could barely see the plane in front of him, let alone their fighter escort.

"I hate missions like this." He grumbled, scanning over the prodigious selection of gauges laid out before them. "Even at night'd be better than this crap."

"Looks like clouds up ahead too, don't it?" Madrox's voice crackled over their headsets. "Weather info didn't say anything about that."

"Maybe it'll work in our favor. Clouds'll keep us from eating too much nazi ack-ack." DaCosta checked his own gauges. "Always look on the sunny side, right?"

As they approached the ever-thickening clouds, Richer hoped he was right.

 

~~  
[musical accompaniment](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCG3kJtQBKo)

~~

~~~~~~~

The storm had roared in on the squadron with an unnatural ferocity and precision. Blinding flashes of lightning drew ever closer to the planes, sending the gauges spiralling wildly and illuminating the interior of the "Earthshaker" in stark relief.

"Cappy, comm's gone down on at least half the planes!" Rusty shouted over the intercom.

"Instruments aren't lookin' too good either, Jake." DaCosta grumbled as the steering yoke pulled against his grip.

"We're not more'n ten out from the target." Richter said into the mic. "Rusty, see if you can raise anyone left in the squad, tell 'em to start dropping in five. Then get out."

"You think this is what Lieutenant Russell's guys are here for?" DaCosta asked, still fighting the plane.

"This storm's tryin' to kill us, Bobby. I think it might have something to do with it." Richter answered as hailstones like hen's eggs started pounding on the plane.

"We're not gonna survive this much longer."

"I know." Richter stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the smooth, cool stone there, and squeezing it tightly. "Trust me, ok?"

"Captain! Bomb bay doors shorted out!" Rusty was yelling. "Airbornes are kick'in em open."

The lights flickered in the plane and there was a lurch as one of the engines went. Below them there was an orange glow growing visible. The bombing run had started too early as either the panicked crews began to drop their payloads or the electrical damage had caused the racks to unload.

"Jake, we gotta get out of here." DaCosta was shouting over the din, but the words were blotted out by another voice, yelling into the intercom.

"Jake! Major Summers says he can hold the plane together, till you get us out of here." Russell. Speaking too quickly, too loudly.

"Ben. I gotta drop you guys here. Go kill whatever's doin' this, ok?" He said as the glass began to crack under the onslaught of hail. He clutched the stone in his pocket a little tighter. "Trust me, you're not the only freakshow on this flight, you hear me? Get your asses off this plane and I'll see you later."

He could hear Proudstar and Guthrie shouting behind him. "Promise." Russell said and there was a wash of static as the comm went.

"Jake?" DaCosta's dark eyes slid over to him.

"Trust me, Bobby." He said as the windscreen spiderwebbed in front of them. "Just... trust me."

~~  
[musical accompaniment](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C28AT_n6JlU)


	7. Late Summer, 1949

[1949]

The little sitting room had been bleached by years of sun streaming in through the lace curtains, fading the wallpaper and the armchair to an almost uniform yellowish tint adorned with ghostly posies and plaid.

Against one wall, an old console radio stood, polished wood and metal in a style ten years old- ivory bakelite knobs crazed like antique china. A few photos sat on top, not quite as faded as the rest of the room. The crews of the "Earthshaker", Richter leaning against another plane's nose art, only the lower part, a pair of dice (marked two and five) visible.

Coffee, gone cold, sat on a small tray table next to the chair, a neatly unfolded letter beside it, Pan America Airlines blue logo on heavy cream paper.

Outside, prairie stretched, vast and lion-coloured, sliced by a dusty line of asphalt and the morse code of the fenceline running beside it.. The little house sat in a patch that was greener, a strange small oasis dotted with hardy apple trees and a riot of flowers tumbling over the porch.

Late summer insects chirruped in the tall golden grasses, only to be drowned out by the ear-splitting roar of an air compressor and it's tools.

the Boeing Stearman cropduster had seen some better days, its paint as baked and faded as the wallpaper inside or the old pickup that sat in the driveway. the air tools clattered then fell silent to a string of colourful cursing in spanish and english.

With a grunt, the compressor motor still running loudly in the background, Jake Richter flopped on the dusty ground, wiping his forehead and glaring up at the grease streak his glove left in its wake.

When the compressor finally shut off, he expected to hear the cavernous quiet that the prairie brought with it, but there was a crunch. Footsteps on gravel.

Sitting up, he saw the bike first- an Indian, filthy from the road and still half sitting in the dusty cloud that had accompanied it down the highway.

He saw the rock next, unremarkable and grey- the size of a quail's egg from an airfield a few thousand miles away, as it dropped in his lap.

And this last time, Jake Richter almost missed seeing the redhead because he'd already buried his face against the bigger man's sun-warm jacket as they stood in that oddly spreading patch of green.


End file.
